That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America. I should be sorry if Shotbolt got the reward. He walked in her direction. "I yield to fate. ” She stirred gently in her chair. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more.
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